


Making a new mistake

by mary_w_marlowe



Series: I built my life around you and now you are gone [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-18
Updated: 2013-06-19
Packaged: 2017-12-15 09:10:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/847787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mary_w_marlowe/pseuds/mary_w_marlowe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is the story of Mary Morstan.</p><p>A sequel to 'I was so alone and I owe you so much', but can be read as a stand-alone</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Monday, July 2nd, 2012

**Author's Note:**

> I chose to post no tags or even pairings as those would be spoilers... :) I will add them as they come. This story is not yet complete, so if you have any suggestions, I would love to hear them. This is not Johnlock story, not even John or Sherlock centered.
> 
> There might be some F/F later on... But for now, just a simple story of friendship, love and disappointments... Just life I guess. I treat Mary Morstan as an OFC.
> 
> In this story, I will consider the date of Sherlock's death as Sunday 3rd July 2011, as it is not very clear. Source: http://sherlockology.tumblr.com/post/25016715568/sherlocks-death-date
> 
> I meant no disrespect to the workers or members of any counseling groups!

Monday, July 2nd, 2012

“Mary, Allow me to introduce you our small group.” She sounds so cheerful. Don’t bother, I think, I will not remember their names even if I tried, and trust me, I will not try.

I am not rolling my eyes, but only because I am consciously trying not to. I mean no disrespect to her work, but honestly, I so don’t belong here. 

“Michael” 

Really, I am fine. I really am. It happened almost a half a year ago, I am perfectly ok. How else am I supposed to say it? I have been through all the stages of grief, yes, thank you, I have heard of them so many times, that I really went through them with a weird familiarity. I don’t need to be sitting here, listening to depressed people and their tears.

“John” 

All I really need it to get back to work, back to something useful. Sitting around and talking about my feelings is not going to help anybody. And it is not like there is someone waiting at home for me to be in perfect mental health, is it?

“Kelly”

I suddenly wish I was forced to attend AA meetings instead. At least there you don’t have an annoying therapist who looks at you and thinks they know everything. 

“Natalie”

Why are these people here? Is this going to help them? Do they honestly believe that talking to other sad people is helping? I just don’t see it.

“And Becky”

They don’t really look much helped. No offence. I am sure I look better than all of them together. Every one of the people sitting on the 6 chairs feels absolutely broken. No way I look the same. Right?

They all try to smile at me and fail miserably. All of them but, of course, our therapist, young, enthusiastic woman named Olivia.

“In the first session I encourage the new member of our group to say a little something about themselves. You don’t need to start right off with why are you here, but please share a piece of yourself, something that is you and no one can take it away from you.”

I am a cop, I wanted to say. Lame, I am not my job. I am a wife. I am sorry, my mistake, I used to be one. And I am afraid that is the depth of me. It is not like I have time for much else outside my job and my marriage. And now I don’t even have the latter. So, a piece of myself that no one can take away from me? They force me to be here under the threat of losing my job, so that is hardly the answer. 

So I say: “Nothing really. Everything can be taken away from me.” Is this the typical or atypical answer, I wonder. Olivia just looks at me and says: “I hope in couple of weeks you will change your answer.” I would like to see that too.

The session goes as predicted, there is bunch of tears along the way, sad stories and I am doing my best to not listen in, but despite years of practice of reacting calmly to sobs, my subconscious somehow cannot ignore it. I listen to Natalie crying over her son, who died of cancer and will never see his kid growing up. I listen to Becky, who miscarried for second time and cannot decide if she is too scared to keep trying or just give up on having a baby. All I want to do is run away and never see these people again. It is too much.

I work homicides and I have never really thought about the other, not violent, but still unfair deaths happening in the world, maybe until today. Strange, how is that possible?

Then one of the two men in the room- the blond one- starts talking. “Tomorrow, it will be a year. I cannot believe it’s been a year.”

“What is your plan for tomorrow, John?” Olivia asks.

“Don’t know,” he murmurs, staring at the floor. 

“Will you go to his grave?”

“Dunno. Maybe. No…”

“Maybe you should, to tell him how you’ve been. I did it last year on Derek’s grave and it helped. Only a bit, but it helped. I missed having conversation with him so I went to visit him.” One of the women advises.

I hope no one ever suggest such a thing to me. It scares me. John doesn’t really respond and she puts a hand on his thigh, reassuringly, saying: “Don’t hesitate to call at any time, dear. You don’t have to go through tomorrow alone.” He nods, but no one is really fooled and no one believes that he will really call, not even me.

For a moment I think about the moment when I will be at the “it’s been a year” mark. Will I look that broken?

Olivia eyes me and obviously contemplates asking me a question but I am sure she read my file and she just decides against it. Smart girl. I have nothing to add.

Our hour is over and we are let go. I get off my seat, murmur some barely polite good-bye and get my mobile phone before I reach the door. I need a case.


	2. Chapter 2

Monday, August 6th, 2012

I’d managed to avoid answering any real questions for good four sessions. Then my captain called me to his office and told me to participate in the meetings or I will be put on a leave, the same as if I didn’t go to them at all. I didn’t think that was fair and I said so. 

“I don’t understand. Why do you want me to talk about my feelings with a group of strangers, sir?”  
“Well, maybe because you don’t have some friends to talk to that you haven’t left on the other side of Pacific, how about that? I just want to make sure you are fit to do your job.”

He was right, in my attempt to move on, I moved out of my apartment, out of my city, out of my country and I came all the way to England. Didn’t help, but at least I don’t have to deal with all the pitying looks on the faces of the people who knew my story. Here, no one knows. Well, no one, but my new boss who worries about my sanity. 

So at the next session I volunteer to share. I have no idea what to say. “I guess I should tell you my sob story, ha?” They are quiet. “I hate talking about it. I…” Oh God, how am I going to do it? I can’t, I can’t! “One day there was a 911 call reporting shots fired at my home address, the responding officers alerted my captain right away and… “

I realize that this sentence makes little sense so I explain: “I am a police officer, just like I was in New York City” I clear my throat. “Ehm, so… I tried calling my husband on the way to our house from the car but he wasn’t picking up and…” 

This is too difficult, I cannot talk about it. I can’t, it’s too much! I take a deep breath. And another one. They are still quiet. “He shot himself to the head with my backup service weapon.” I can’t tell if they are shocked or don’t care, because I am looking at the floor instead of looking at them.

“I am sorry to hear that, that must have been difficult,” Olivia tries to say. I laugh bitterly.

“That is not all. It turned out he didn’t do it. After hours and hours of blaming myself for not seeing the signs, for being a lousy wife who spends too much time at work, thinking that she helps people but she cannot help the most important person in her life…”

I suddenly feel tears in my eyes. Oh God, I thought I was stronger than that. “I am sorry, I can’t talk about it anymore.” 

“I know how you felt. Even if it turned out he didn’t do it, it must have hurt, thinking he did. That he left you. That he felt like he needed to end his life without trying to ask you for help…” says the blond man, John. He doesn’t talk too often, but when he does, he talks about a man whose name he avoids speaking. I had no idea how John’s friend died, but now I can guess that easily.

“You do…” I whisper. 

“I am glad he didn’t… You know…”

I just nod a silent thanks at him. It is nothing to be glad about, but he doesn’t know that and he thinks that anything is better than your loved one taking his own life without a warning. I let him, because I cannot really finish my story. 

“You can tell us the rest another time if you don’t feel like continuing right now, it’s ok. You were very brave today, thank you for opening up.” Yeah. 

When the session ends, I am still not able to move off my chair and Olivia says that it’s fine if I want to take a minute. I decide to do just that and I am still in the same pose when John comes rushing back. He halts in the door when he sees me and murmurs something about forgetting his umbrella. 

He walks to the back of the room, picks it up and instead of leaving, he sits next to me. I look up, a bit surprised and he smiles softly. “You fancy a cuppa?” I still giggle a bit at those British phrases and I do so now. “Make it hot chocolate and sure.” “Aren’t you a police officer? Shouldn’t you want like black coffee instead? You know, drinking hot chocolate you just don’t seem tough.” 

He is obviously teasing me and so I shrug “Nah, you are not my new team I don’t have to prove myself to you, so yeah, hot chocolate, I hope you people make it good.” 

“Us people?” he raises his eyebrows. 

“You know exactly what I mean!” 

“All right, miss America, all right.”

I feel at ease with him and I am not really sure how is that possible. “John Watson, just in case you haven’t caught my name in the past month or so”, he holds out his hand for me to shake and I do just that saying: “Mary Morstan, in case you didn’t either”.


	3. Still Monday, August 6th, 2012

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I treat Mary as an OFC, I know very little about the canon Mary.
> 
> Also, I know very little about the real police procedure and ranking and stuff, only what I understood from all the cop shows I watch, so, sorry.

Still Monday, August 6th, 2012

“So you obviously don’t want to talk about the things that brought you to our happy group”, he starts our conversation once we are seated with our drinks inside the tiny cafe. 

“The truth is I have never talked about it before. Everybody knew, most of them even before I did… The only ones I needed to explain some things to were my parents, but even they read the major facts in the papers… So yeah, I don’t know how to talk about it even if I wanted to… ”, I answer.

“The papers…” he says softly, “those are the worst part, aren’t they? They get it completely wrong but you can scream your lungs out, nobody listens to you, because your story is not juicy enough.”

He obviously knows what he is talking about. Again. I wonder what he really went through that brought him to the counseling group.

“And when the papers have someone you trusted supporting all the terrible lies with stupid statements instead of standing by your side”, I say, my voice barely audible and sounding a bit broken to my own ears.

“Well, someone you trusted got you into the whole mess in the first place, so…” He really gets the nail right on the head. 

“You know, you just know how it felt. How is that possible, John?” 

And so he tells me the whole story of one Sherlock Holmes, the consulting detective. The only one in the world. The man who saved John’s life. The one who gave John a purpose. He even tells me about the last night before the “fall”, as he calls it. He admits that he never told that bit to anyone before and for some reason kind of expects me to be somehow disgusted by the fact that he and Sherlock slept together. But I say nothing.

We drink way too many teas; yes, I am so caught in his story I don’t even notice what he puts in front of me after each order.

Some time later, when he is all finished, he smiles sheepishly: “I am not sure why I told you all of it. And I mean I told you everything, even things I didn’t realize I really felt and saw. How did you do it?”

“I am a good listener and a police officer, people naturally trust me”, I tease a little. “Did talking about it help?”

“Until now, it never has. But somehow, telling you everything… I feel lighter. Why?”

I shrug, having no idea. I notice the clock on the wall. “Holly shit! Shit, shit.” I completely forgot about being on call, my phone turned off, happily chatting with my new friend. John is shaking his head, for some reason grinning. 

“What’s so funny?” I ask annoyed, switching my phone on. 

“The way you say shit. It’s funny!”

“Are you making fun of my accent?” I raise my eyebrows.

“And if I am? What will you do about it, officer?” He almost laughs. I smile at him. I realize it is some kind of reaction to shock, or defusing after a difficult conversation full of emotions, because my accent is not that funny.

“Shut up, John.” I say, suppressing a mad giggle that makes no sense. I have never reacted like this to nerves. John himself is laughing out loud and I let him, smiling like an idiot.   
“I believe, next time it is your turn to tell me a story” John says, suddenly serious. I reach to my wallet and get one of my business cards. 

“Detective Inspector? That is quite high rank for person of your age.” John is actually surprised. I shrug. 

“More luck than anything else… Long story. Next time, ok? Call me. Anytime. I gonna go.” I say in a hurry, already listening to my voicemails. 

“Shit.” I murmur and turn to leave. Before I reach the door I hear John say “Thank you” so I wave at him and smile. It was a good afternoon.


End file.
